


The Fallen and the Falling

by ladygray99



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:47:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladygray99/pseuds/ladygray99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t often have to take care of John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fallen and the Falling

**Author's Note:**

> First Sherlock fic originally written for devo79.

Sherlock went through the careful ritual of making tea just the way John liked it. Steeped just a little too long, splash of milk, one sugar. He knew John wouldn't appreciate it. Right now probably the only thing John really wanted was a bottle of something heavily alcoholic and a dark room to be alone in.

Sherlock set the tea in front of John. He was still in his uniform. Full dress for a fallen comrade. Full dress for a man who had been a friend. Sherlock didn't comment on the almost absurd number of medals on John's chest, many for bravery under extreme circumstances.

John stared at the tea.

“It'll get cold.”

John stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock wondered if this is what it was like from the other end of his black moods.

“There was nothing you could have done, even if you were there. In fact in all likelihood you would have been buried in that uniform right next to him.”

John bristled. “Maybe-”

“No. It was a closed casket, there wasn't even a family viewing. That speaks to catastrophic injuries that not even the finest Army doctors would be able to tend.”

John stood. “I'm going to bed.”

Sherlock didn't follow. For all the things he was good at comforting the bereaved wasn't one of them. Normally he could care less but he still remembers the look on John's face as he watched the news report of four killed in a roadside attack. The phone had rung only a moment later. It was a very long distance call giving him the names of four men that the BBC didn't even know yet.

John had drunk that night. It was the only time Sherlock had seen John drink more than a couple of pints at the pub. Nearly all the alcohol in the flat was hospital grade and meant for experiments. Still, John had managed to produce a bottle of vodka from some place even Sherlock didn't know about, then he drank it.

Sherlock listed to John move around upstairs. He wasn’t going to bed. He was pacing, becoming agitated. Sherlock knew that going to sleep would probably be worse for John. The nightmares that had begun to fade within the first month of moving in to 221B would certainly pick back up.

There was a thump. John’s fist against the wall. Best not let Mrs. Hudson see that. John was still pacing, sifting through drawers, sitting down on his bed only to quickly stand back up. Sherlock wondered if he should go up there. Give John someone to be mad at other than the wall. Sherlock knows John would throw him back out if he tried, lying that he was fine and complaining about privacy.

Sherlock picked up his violin instead. It would be better if John came down to yell at him about the noise. Sherlock settled the violin under his chin and stretched his arm. He heard the creak of John’s bed springs then there was quiet.

Sherlock closed his eyes. There was only one little creak. John must be sitting on the edge of his bed.

He set his bow to the strings. Instead of the harsh shrill he had originally planned on he drew out a soft low note then another. He let his fingers shift carefully along the strings creating a gentle if slightly melancholy air.

There was no sound from upstairs. Sherlock couldn't decide if that was good or bad so he simply played on. In was no specific tune, just a flow of one note into another.

Over the notes Sherlock heard a creak of bed springs and the dull thumps of heavy feet. John leaned against the wall, not fully stepping into the room, and watched Sherlock play. He had removed his uniform jacket but that was it.

Sherlock pulled a long final note and lowered his bow.

“It should have been me,” John said his voice strangely clear for a man who showed all the hallmarks of being on the edge of tears.

“No.”

“Why not?”

That was not the response Sherlock was anticipating. “Because it is unlikely I would have ever met Lt. Richardson and even if I had it is extremely unlikely I would have found him a suitable flat mate, investigative assistant and occasional blogger. And more likely than not I'd be dead at the hands of a mad cabby months ago.”

John made a small sound that could have been the first idea of a chuckle. “So I was fated to survive Afghanistan so I could come back to London just enough of a wreck to be willing to live with you?”

“Oh don't be dull, John. There is no such thing as fate. Only random chaos and in our case rather fortunate random chaos that led us to a mutually beneficial relationship.”

This time John did let a chuckle slip out then just as suddenly pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “It didn't hurt when I was there, Sherlock, not like this. I lost friends when I was over there, good friends but there was never enough time to dwell on it. It's hard to hurt when most days you're just trying to stay alive.”

Sherlock put down his violin. He was tempted to call Lestrade and ask for a case. That's what John needed right now, a case. Something that would have him running around London. Maybe a high end theft. Art or diamonds. Sherlock fingered his phone in his pocket but just the day before Lestrade had sent him a very angry text, something about tampered evidence, and told him he wasn't getting a case for a while. Sherlock wondered if maybe he could ask on John's behalf.

John sucked in a chest full of air through his teeth. Sherlock reached out and laid his hand on John's shoulder. “You should probably get some sleep.” Sherlock was pretty sure that was the kind of thing he was supposed to say.

John nodded. “I should.” He lowered his hands and glanced over to the violin. “Play something for me.”

That was yet another response tonight that Sherlock wasn't expecting. “Why?”

“Because it'll help me sleep. If I can focus on the sound of you playing I won't lay there with my brain running in circles keeping me awake. I'm sure you can appreciate that.”

Sherlock could. “Go to bed, John.”

John nodded. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock waited, listening to the sounds of feet on the stairs, John undressing, then the creak of springs that told him John was laying down. Sherlock picked up his bow and began to play.


End file.
